


Red on red

by galaxy_starshade



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: (nearly), AU where Enjolras dies after Grantaire, Alternate Universe, Barricade Day, Barricades, Dawn of June 6, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras-centric, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, I love writing that sort of things even if it hurts like hell, On The Barricade, Random House in June 1832, only slightly AU, people dying, remembering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxy_starshade/pseuds/galaxy_starshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras' last moments, remembering the barricades as Death strikes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red on red

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Rouge sur rouge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420217) by [galaxy_starshade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxy_starshade/pseuds/galaxy_starshade). 



> Ok, it's a translation of my own work, that's only slightly weird.  
> This work is not really canonical since I saw the movie (2012), read the Brick, waited about 5 months then wrote this. (Like, one and a half year ago)  
> I re-wrote Enjolras, Courf and R's deaths.  
> I hope you will like it.  
> Apologies for any typos, grammar errors, etc, English isn't my first language.  
> I wrote it while listening How to save a life, by The Fray. If you want more tears, go on :)

It's very different from what Enjolras had pictured. The Revolution, with its glorious colorful flags and proud young people taking possession of triumphant processions, is crumbling first slowly, then faster and faster.

The sky was so blue when they had begun. No cloud threatened the horizon, and it's proudly that they had started to sing, then to shout the song of angry people, of revolt and of freedom.

They had climbed on the coaches, chasing away the aristocrats so unfairly privileged. All of them, men, women, children, people of Paris, everyone on the roofs of the vehicles, waving red flags and singing together.

The black barrel is directing to his chest, Enjolras closes his eyes, quick, he has to remember.

The national guardsmen had come, of course, ruining the innocent and joyous mood and the brand-new freedom. There had been a few gunshots, but only as warnings. The populace had to return to its place, they had to stop making waves.

But revolting had asked more bravery than a simple impulse would have, and they hadn't stopped. They had hidden in smaller streets, easier to defend. Women who stayed in the houses had given them furniture to build barricades, push away invaders thinking they just had to gather the sheep.

Making piles out of wood, mattresses, boxes, hadn't been too difficult. It was after, when the guards had arrived and when their lieutenant had commanded them to aim at the rebels, it was then they had understood that it wasn't just a game, that the bullets that had started flying were real.

The barrel of the gun is black, so black it seems it's gulping all the light around. Enjolras' eyes are irresistibly attracted to it, but with all his willpower, he closes his lids and recalls his memories.

They had begun to riposte with powder too. The red in Enjolras' jacket found its counterparts in the blood's reds ; glowing red in the scratch on the hand, caused by a splinter on the side of a bed ; marroon red in the gash a bayonet let on a cheek ; dark red, nearly black, for the flood escaping the belly touched by the hail of enemy bullets.

The finger releases the hammer with a slight click. Quick, he has to remember.

The rebels had started to back off, first with regrets, then, the number of dead and wounded becoming more important, they had hidden behind the second barricade, less high, less solid.

Without ammunition.

The boy, Gavroche, had slipped between the ranks of rifles, picking up unused ammunition, leaping from one body to another, like a wild fire, invulnerable to bullets and seemingly immortal.

Then he had stopped a second too much, a red patch flowering on his forehead, and he had fallen, his arms still hanging in the air, gracious, regal until the very end, him, little street boy, dirty and scruffy, his eyes wide open, shining, his mouth fixed in a last laugh, its sound not yet ended.

The finger is resting on the trigger. The fear, that until now had been laying around like a sleeping snake in his stomach, transforms itself in a roaring dog, trying to make him flee. Enjolras puts his hand behind him, only the wall responds to him with its unchangeable presence.

After that, the rebels had no longer thought. Who was this red haired boy ? Nobody really knew him, but everyone had learned to like him, brave in the battle, ingenious in the street, funny in the _café_.

They had picked the last ammunition and had charged, knowing that their chance, as well as their hope, had been spent, but refusing to give up.

At his feet, Grantaire, dead before touching the ground, just beside him, Courfeyrac, bleeding out. A click draws Enjolras' attention, the soldier is pulling the trigger. In a flash, the revolutionary sees his face, too focused to hide his fear, his wide eyes behind the rear sight, his freckles ; his knees are shaking, they must be about the same age, the soldier and the rebel. Enjolras sees the trigger reach the end of its stroke, the detonation tells him he has only a split second to remember.

The guardsmen, which had bigger numbers, had responded without flinching, separating them into smaller groups, forcing them to retreat into houses to defend themselves.

Enjolras had lost his rifle, it didn't have much more importance since he had no longer ammunition. He had climbed to the first floor of a small house, preceding Courfeyrac and following Grantaire, the leg of a table in his hand as a weapon.

They had fought bravely, but shock weapons against bullets weren't good enough. Courfeyrac had collapsed first, his hand on his shoulder, before receiving a bullet in the stomach that permanently annihilated his hopes of a better world and his dreams of freedom. Then it had been Grantaire's turn, dead before hitting the ground, his eyes wide in fear, his mouth still open in surprise, plucked by death in a split second, so human in his indignation, in his rebellion against the inevitable ; he who took good care not to believe in anything could not believe in his own death.

Enjolras had taken a step to the left, approaching the window, but he knew it was already too late. With his left hand he had grasped the curtain, trying oh bring out his tangled ankles, but surprising himself, he had tightened his grip there, as if trying to reassure himself.

The line of bright orange light flowing from the rifle mouth that was so black a second before traces its way to his heart at an impossible speed. The shock projects him backwards, through the window, but his legs tangled in the curtain hold him upside down suspended.

Even upside down, everything is carnage.

Enjolras closes his eyes, keeping them open requires too much effort, the black invades, he no longer sees anything, he hears nothing more. The only thing he is aware of is the blood spreading across his chest, splattering seeping through his shirt and racket, red on red. Then his dreams of freedom are blown out, as his hopes of equality and justice, and his hands relax, opening themselves in a gesture of acceptance when he gives up the last thing he still possessed.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it. I hope you like it. If yes, you can comment/kudo, it's always nice. If no, constructive comments are also nice.  
> Enjoy all your future books/fanfics !
> 
> (If you don't want to comment, I like you anyway.)


End file.
